


Safehouse

by stitchy



Series: Bedazzled AUs [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Supernatural Elements, Bodyguard AU, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Eddie Kaspbrak, Pining, Unresolved Romantic Tension, genre typical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24078607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchy/pseuds/stitchy
Summary: They high five, and even after that initial smack the air seems to keep crackling like they should do it again. They should keep touching. They shouldkiss.Eddie takes a quick breath. But then he would have to fire Richie, because there’s no way they should get involved while he’s a protectee, he’s not stupid, but there’s just never been a good time to turn everything upside down. And what if- what if he did finally put it out there and what hethinkshe feels going on between them is wrong? Maybe they’re just really close friends after all, and Eddie doesn’t know the difference because it was always impossible for him to date without derailing Dad’s politics.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Bedazzled AUs [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772641
Comments: 73
Kudos: 374





	Safehouse

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sympathy From The Devil](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23740204) by [stitchy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchy/pseuds/stitchy). 



> AN: This fic is a spin off from my Bedazzled AU “Sympathy From The Devil”. The world where Richie is the bodyguard of former First Son/activist Eddie Kaspbrak is just one of several realities Eddie wishes up while trying to make some sense of what he wants from life. You don’t have to read it to understand this, at all! But it's fun, and that where this fic was sort of back-door-piloted. “Safehouse” stands alone as it’s own work, and while it does retread about 3k of “Sympathy”... this time... [network executive voice] we’ve got a bigger budget and the gays win.

03:00

[START: CRAWLER]

[RUN: CRAWLER: PROIP]

[CONFIRM]

[CRAWLER: RESULT: N]  
  
[RUN: CRAWLER: PROSNN]

[CONFIRM]

[CRAWLER: RESULT: N]  
  
[RUN: CRAWLER: PROADD]

[CONFIRM]

[CRAWLER: RESULT: Y]  
  
EDWARD FRANCIS KASPBRAK  
3680 PALLET STREET  
TARRYTOWN, NY 10591

[START: NOTIFY]

[RUN: NOTIFY: PROADD VULNERABLE]  
  


04:00

Instead of saying good morning, Richie tosses a duffle bag onto Eddie’s bed. “Rise and shine, Spaghetti. We’re going to New Jersey.”

“Nooo,” Eddie groans, pulling the covers over his head. It’s Sunday, for fuck’s sake.

“I don’t like it either, but you already had a credible threat out, and your address just got leaked. Them’s the brakes.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah, he _should_ care about the fact some psycho who’s out for his blood has figured out where he lives... But maybe if he reminds Richie of all the wonderful things they can do that _aren’t_ in New Jersey, Eddie sleepily reasons, he’ll change his mind.

“What about the steaks we have marinating?” he muffles into his pillow. “What about Bill and Mike? We _always_ play basketball on Sunday.” 

And they play it at noon when it's enjoyable, not _four in the fucking morning._ Sure, when they play every man for himself Mike and Richie always clobber him and Bill with their height advantage, but it’s fun. It’s the only time when they’re out and about Eddie gets to really fend for himself. Everywhere else, if someone drops a glass, Richie jumps. If a car backfires, Richie jumps. If someone in a crowd is giving the wrong kind of vibe, Richie puts himself between them and Eddie, instantly. That’s what bodyguards do. They protect. Not on the court, though. He’ll bodyslam Eddie in a heartbeat. He doesn’t care who gets a bloody nose as they recklessly foul each other. One time he even picked Eddie up and threatened to dunk him before bodily tossing him at Mike, who caught him, of course, but what if he hadn’t? Eddie could’ve broke his back! What a fucking blast.

“I don't want you doing anything you’ve ‘always’ done right now,” Richie says in his Serious Voice. It’s overly articulated but calming and deep- designed to be persuasive in a crisis. Eddie can hear him pulling open the drawers of his bureau, as he continues on like that. “That’s predictable. That’s dangerous-”

Eddie sits up like a shot and catches a folded and pinned shirt that’s just been frisbeed at him. “That’s _dry cleaned!_ ”

He huffs and starts getting out of bed. Richie is grabbing all the wrong things. If they’re going to go camp out in a safehouse for the weekend he’s not going to need a fucking tux shirt, he wants some polos and a sweater. He shoves Richie out of his way and starts pulling the right sort of clothes from the drawers.

“You’re gonna wear that?” He grins at Eddie’s rugby shirt, striped yellow and white. Everytime he wears it Richie takes a break from wearing out his old code name, Spaghetti, to dub him Macaroni, instead. Somehow this is not a deterrent for Eddie.

“It's my favorite color,” he says, stuffing it into the bag. “You're gonna wear your gun?”

“It's my favorite gun.”

“I hate it.”  
  
Richie pouts. “I know, Spaghetti, baby.”

Eddie frowns.

That only makes Richie lean in to pinch his cheek. “If I had your mean little scowl I wouldn't need it to protect you, but here we both are. You should take the sneakers that match, it’d be cute.”

Maintaining eye contact and scowl the whole time, Eddie backs into his closet and grabs the most clashing pair of sneakers possible and drops them into the bag.

“You are _cold,_ Kaspbrak. Pack a sweater.”

“I was already planning on it,” Eddie sighs, half peeved, half warmed by their special brand of telepathy.

They ought to be a pretty good unit by now- it’s been the Richie and Eddie show since college, when Dad became the party frontrunner and Eddie was first placed in the care of the Secret Service. Richie was his shadow during Dad’s term as President, and then when that was all over, he started his own private security company and Eddie hired him right away.

“And don’t worry, we can put the steaks in the cooler and bring them with us,” Richie points out. He’s been hankering for them, too.

“All right.” Eddie fights a smile. “Toss me that tux shirt. I’ll put it with the rest of the monkey suit.”

Richie picks it up and fakes like he’ll throw it but then he hugs it to his chest instead when Eddie flinches. “Or, you could bring it with you. We could sit around the safehouse, eat steak, and pretend we’re in _Clue_?”

“You are trying _not_ to get me murdered, though, right?” Eddie raises a hand and his eyebrows.

“How long have we been together?” Richie throws him the shirt.

“Sixteen years.”

“And in sixteen years how many times have I let you be assassinated?”

“Zero times.” Eddie rolls his eyes and sticks the shirt into the garment bag with his tux. That way it will all be together when he needs it for the documentary's red carpet. “And in sixteen years how many times have you asked me that?” 

“Sixteen times fifty-two, uhh... eight hundred and thirty-two.”

“Once a week.” Eddie stalks out of the closet, right up to Richie. Right in his space. “I’m sick of it. It's poisoning me. This! This is the real threat to my safety! What if I go to the safehouse and you stay here? That might be safer. _Or,_ you go and I stay.”

Richie narrows his eyes and stares down at Eddie with the kind of challenge in his eyes he usually reserves for playing ball. “You’ll go crazy without me. I know you hired me for the company.”

“I hired you because it was cheaper than sending my mother to a spa for the rest of her life.” When Eddie graduated and declared he intended to make taking down the NRA his life’s work, she practically started spinning her head around, _Exorcist_ style.

“And I’m so grateful to dear Mrs. K for that. I should call her. Have _her_ make you go.”

Eddie’s caught wise to that trick. “You can’t. I bribed the front desk at Betty Ford last time you went over my head.”

“You’re a terrible son.”

“That’s what sh-”

“-she said, _oh dip_!”

They high five, and even after that initial smack the air seems to keep crackling like they should do it again. They should keep touching. They should _kiss_. Eddie takes a quick breath. But then he would have to fire Richie, because there’s no way they should get involved while he’s a protectee, he’s not _stupid_ , but there’s just never been a good time to turn everything upside down. And what if- what if he did finally put it out there and what he _thinks_ he feels going on between them is wrong? Maybe they’re just really close friends after all, and Eddie doesn’t know the difference because it was always impossible for him to date without derailing Dad’s politics. And besides being friends and working together, they live together, too. Eddie can’t ruin all of that for Richie because he’s got a crush. 

Like the thousand other times they’ve stood on this brink, nothing happens. Richie clears his throat and backs away, sweeping an arm at the bureau so Eddie can keep packing.

“My liege,” he grovels, really underscoring whatever chaste, courtly romance thing they’ve got going on in Eddie’s head.

Eddie checks his duffel, where he’s already packed shirts for two days and some jogging (if Richie will allow it) but he’s not sure how wild he should go here, as he digs into his underwear drawer. “How long is this for, Richie?”

“Best case scenario, Mike and Bill work out this fucking nutcase’s location today, and you get to spend the weekend working on the book in a woodsy reatreat like some alcoholic from the Fifties, just for the hell of it.”

It doesn’t sound so bad when Richie puts it so colorfully. Still. “And the worst case scenario?”

“Considering Bowers’ problem with you is the documentary? We’d have to cancel a bunch of events this year and circle the wagons until it’s release blows over, or you- _I dunno-_ YouTube yourself destroying the print.”

“Yeah, we’re not doing that,” says Eddie. He shoves some pants into the duffle bag. “I’ve been working on the doc for three years, I’m not gonna let that dickhole scare me into mothballing it.” The craziest thing is, originally Bowers interviewed for the documentary before rescinding his permission. Most people Eddie gets death threats from are laughably anonymous and without access, but he’s looked in that fucker’s eyes.

“I know,” Richie says in his Serious Voice, again. “I just want you to make it to the premier in one piece.”

Eddie hefts the strap of the bag over his shoulder and looks at Richie, just as serious. He knows Richie has been with him every step of the way, and would be just as disappointed if they had to chop the balls off the documentary’s screening tour. No matter what they joke, he’s with Eddie because he believes in him. And really, he believes in Richie, too.

“Okay,” he tells Richie. “Whatever you think is best.”

Richie smiles. “ _And_ I want you to win an Oscar for it, because I wanna be in the audience and split a bag of Skittles with Dame Judi Dench. _Taste the rainbow_ ,” he finishes in a matronly British voice.

“You are such a leech.”

“Yup. Do you think you could introduce me to The Rock? He’s so majestic...”

“Majestic?” Eddie balks. “You know three fucking United States presidents on- not even a _first name basis_ \- you call my dad ‘ _dude’!_ ”

“Yeah, but has your dad ever been in any _Fast and Furious_ movies?” Richie rolls his eyes.

Despite himself, Eddie _can_ imagine taking Richie to the Oscars. Showing him off, if they ever- “You realize you’d be my protection not my guest, right?”

“That’s why The Rock would respect me. We’re both super ripped.” Richie makes a fist and flexes a fairly impressive muscle. He’s no 300lb pro-wrestler wrecking ball, of course, but he’s got the strength and size to toss Eddie around and ward off people who think the former First Son is a tourist attraction. Straining Eddie’s last nerve, Richie pushes up both sleeves of his LICENSE TO CHILL tee shirt to really show off the goods. It’s annoyingly hot.

“ _You’re_ gonna need protection in a minute,” Eddie warns.

Richie licks his lip. “Really? I’ll duck into CVS on our way out. You’re not allergic to latex or anything are ya?”

“I hate you so much.”

  
  


05:00

To make up for dragging Eddie out of bed at a cruel hour, Richie stops off at a diner before they get on the Garden State Parkway. He’s so exhausted he has no idea what to order besides toast, but Richie gets himself a heaping plate of chicken and waffles and keeps forking pieces of it over to his plate.

Richie sits back with his coffee. “I know you’re not absorbing anything I’m saying for the long term right now, but Ben can bring anything else you need tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Eddie nods blearily, dousing his pilfered waffle in syrup. Now that the initial shock of fleeing New York has passed, he’s longing to be unconscious again. He didn’t get himself a coffee, so that he might stand a chance of napping at the safehouse before getting down to work.

“Yeah, I’m sure he’ll pack up the PlayStation or your favorite shampoo or whatever else is gonna keep you out of trouble.”

Eddie frowns. “Wait, did _you_ bring shampoo?” His favorite shampoo is whatever Richie uses. Not for using himself, but just... to be around. He hopes he’s not blushing. He blushes so easily when he’s tired.

Richie scratches his sideburns. “No, there’s stuff at the safehouse. It’s just probably not as bougie as you like.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Eddie fumbles around his plate to spear some chicken on his fork, too. “All our stuff from the bathroom then...”

“Cool. We can do face masks while we’re holed up,” Richie grins.

“Is... Ben gonna take over for a bit?”

Eddie likes Ben. He covers short-term for Richie and some of the other guys and works nights, but it’s not the same. Especially not if Eddie’s going to be under house arrest. Obviously, he knows Richie has a life outside of him- like when Ben covered for Richie so he could go to his sister’s wedding, (God knows Richie texted him a thousand pictures from that weekend), but he has a hard time imagining where else Richie would rather be. Maybe that makes him a shitty boss, Eddie doesn’t know. They blurred that employer/friend line so long ago, he doesn’t know if it ever really existed, or if he was always more like a silent partner in Richie’s company.

Richie looks at him like he’s crazy. “While someone’s messing with my Spaghetti? Nah, dude. Wild horses.”

  
  


06:00

Eddie can never sleep in cars or airplanes or any other vehicle, much to his parent’s dismay while Dad was a senator. They were always zipping around with little Eddie in tow, exhausted out of his mind since travel was _the_ scheduled down time.

Driving with Richie is way better, though. Eddie’s still awake, but he sort of wants to be, with Richie at his side. Instead of conducting phone meetings or rehearsing some dry debate, he puts the radio on a classic rock station. Not too loud. Just right. He hums along to the music, and he has a way of drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel that might just be Eddie’s favorite sound in the whole world. As he sits in the passenger seat, sleepy eyed and lovesick, he thinks about telling Richie that some time in the fuzzily imagined future, when it’s not a compromise of anyone’s safety. When they have the elusive ‘time to breathe’. Eddie imagines them driving, not to a safehouse or an event or even to go visit his parents, but just for pleasure. Maybe to the beach, or dinner someplace special. They’ll be on their way back home from a romantic evening, and Eddie will feel all tender and unhurried. He’ll tell Richie, and he’ll grin, and then when they pull in at home he’ll take Eddie’s face in his hands and tap his thumbs at his cheeks and hum REO Speedwagon as he kisses him all over.

_And I meant, every word I said, when I said that I loved you, I meant that I loved you forever._

It’s been like this for sixteen years. _Fuck_. May as well be ‘forever’. That’s nearly half of Eddie’s life. A whirlwind of classes, and then press appearances, and speeches, and high profile projects, and never ever having the time to just be Eddie and Richie without the pressure. Even now, ‘keeping their heads low’ for a week will mean hourly sweeps of the premises for Richie, and monitoring Mike and Bill’s progress on tracking Bowers. Meanwhile, Eddie will be holed up with his laptop and an endless stream of phone calls as he works on adapting the documentary into a printable companion text. They’ll be in the same place, sure, but there are always deadlines and death threats getting in the way.

07:00

The safehouse is up a winding, hilly road in Stirling, with an overlook of a wildlife refuge. It’s kind of like what you’d get from crossing Idyllic Suburb with Castle Defense. Eddie doesn’t love that the only thing between the lane and the steep slope is one of those low galvanized fences, but he supposes that being unnerving to approach is part of the appeal. As an additional treat, it’s on a poorly marked dead end that even the GPS isn’t convinced exists- Richie’s favorite kind of hiding place. He backs the car up to the house for easy unloading of their luggage, and an even easier getaway, if the need should arise.

Since Eddie is nearly asleep on his feet, Richie takes pity on him and carries in his bag. He does a walkthrough before allowing Eddie past the foyer, then heaves their things up the stairs. By the time he gets back down the living room, Eddie has discovered a throw blanket and made camp on the couch.

“Mmm!” Eddie flaps under the blanket for his attention without even opening his eyes. “Wake me up when you do your next sweep.”

He can feel Richie sink into the vacant end of the couch at his feet. “G’night, Spaghetti,” he says with a squeeze of his toes.

  
  
-Sixteen Years Ago-

There are ragers at Yale like on any other college campus, but six months in, Eddie still hasn’t been to any. He turns down lots of invitations, though. Mostly, it's because he knows he’s being used for the host’s clout- those invites are easy to pass up. The rest of the time, he says no because he breaks out in a cold sweat over the regular freshman anxieties and his own undersocialized hang-ups before ever getting around to whether or not it’s a logistical nightmare for his security. So it fucking figures, _of course_ , that the one time he gets invited to something social that he thinks he could handle, The White House puts him on lockdown.

It was just an Oscars party! It was only going to be like, five or six people (if you counted his agent), tops. The host, Beverly his Journalism TA, is low-key enough that he trusts it won’t get too wild even if there was probably going to be champagne. He specifically didn’t ask so that he wouldn’t have to lie when Keene, the head of his detail, grilled him about his plans for the evening. Did that creep find out anyway? They send around agents to clear the way for him wherever he goes, so maybe. Beverly and her grad student friends were too smart to give him away, but maybe one of the others he didn’t know as well. Whatever the case, tonight’s agent isn’t answering any questions until they’ve taken cover, which seems like overkill for a little underage drinking.

One minute, he’s toting some party food down Lake and the next, Tozier has him by the elbow and is dragging him into the nearest former-fallout shelter at the gym. There are loads of underground tunnels here that people _think_ are for some Skull and Bones shit, but really, they’re for skullcrushingly boring steam pipes and boning Eddie’s dreams of ever being a remotely normal college student. 

There aren’t even chairs down there, so Eddie slithers his back down the wall to sit on the cold cement floor, dropping his box of ‘Red Carpet’ cupcakes between his knees. “We couldn’t do this _at_ the party?” he sighs. Beverly’s probably has an underground laundry room, and then at least he’d have had some bearable company. Of all the younger agents who are designed to shadow Eddie discreetly, Tozier is the most obnoxious.

“Spaghetti is secure at Payne Whitney,” he reports to his sleeve, rather than answer.

It’s not that Tozier is no-nonsense. Eddie can get along with no-nonsense. Most agents are straightlaced narc types and easy to mentally tune out- but not Tozier. He’s a fucking show-off. For a start, he loves to strain the definition of ‘campus attire’. While Andrews and Feliciano sport neutral looking blazers and simply forgo buttoning their collars and rely more on baseball caps than sunglasses, this jackass is out here in cargo pants and Aloha shirts. He holds open doors he doesn’t have to, and volunteers to cover Eddie’s morning run without a bike, and _looms_ with his big dumb Lurch shoulders in the back of Eddie’s hardest classes, and _then!_ Then he remembers what the professor said better than Eddie can when he meets with his study group! It’s infuriating. Like, _we get it!_ You’re one of those non-military prodigies the Service recruits to freshen up the pool. You’ve got a degree in Psychology or some shit, and a ‘different approach’. Get over yourself.

“What’d I do wrong this time?” Eddie asks. “Forget to look both ways crossing the street?”

Tozier holds up a finger, focusing on what’s being said in his ear piece.

“I kept a library book out too long,” Eddie guesses next.

Tozier rolls his eyes. “It’s not you, Kaspbrak.”

Eddie fumes. “It fucking feels like it’s me! I don't see anyone else getting punished for nothing down here!”

He is absolutely sick of this. It was bad enough back when he was a senator’s kid- just a prop for the media and political opponents to point at when discussing Senator Kaspbrak’s views on Family and Education and all that, like he was hypothetical. Like he was some kind of photogenic computer simulation in overalls that would prove Dad’s worthiness for office. He had nightmares about flashing lights and shadowy monsters with one big, shining black eye that somehow took his therapist years to realize were TV cameras. Then _finally_ , Eddie had turned eighteen and just when he should have been able to break away like if he were anyone else’s kid in America, he was fair game as an adult _and_ the candidate’s son, and the scrutiny got cranked up by six thousand percent.

“Why make me go to college at all when Dad could've just stuck me in a bunker for a few years!? I hear there’s some nice digs under the Lincoln Memorial. Then no one would have to worry about what soundbite I gave, or if the electives I’m taking are ‘too controversial’, or what’s wrong with me that I don’t date, or if I wanna take my fucking shirt off at the beach!”

Tozier falls into parade rest with his hands clasped behind his back. It looks ridiculous when he’s wearing a _Cheers_ sweatshirt and one of those colorful woven belts. “I can’t enjoy the beach either, sir,” he says. “Anyone bothers you, there’s no walls for me to put them through, I have to kick over their sandcastle instead.”

“You’re not supposed to be funny.” Eddie bites the insides of his cheeks to keep himself scowling. “It undercuts the intimidation factor.”

“Tell that to the sandcastle.”

“I can’t!” Eddie bursts, thunking his head back against the wall. “I can’t do anything I want to do anymore! I don’t even _know_ what I want to do, because every time I try to do something I keep getting- _wait._ Why _am_ I being locked down right now?”

Tozier frowns. “It’s policy that when there are concurrent incidents involving the POTUS or his immediate-”

“- _Is Dad okay_?” Eddie interrupts. His blood runs cold.

“Yes, absolutely,” says Tozier, lightening up. “It’s more a matter of protocol. There was a fire next door to your family's residence in Maine, and then the First Lady was involved in a traffic accident, somewhere else... Until they confirm these aren’t part of a coordinated attack on the First Family-”

Eddie groans. “It’s you and me and the steam pipes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mom probably just fucked up with her meds again,” Eddie shakes his head. He can’t say he’s surprised by that. She shouldn’t drive when she’s in treatment, let alone drink, but it’s not the first time- just the first time she had the bad luck of crashing her car while their neighborhood was burning down.

Tozier doesn’t speculate, or at least he keeps it to himself, maintaining some sense of professionalism. He does loosen up and lean back against the wall opposite Eddie, though, arms crossed. “Like I said, it’s a protocol thing. They’re investigating now. Maybe if we’re lucky we can get you to your party before Best Picture.”

“Maybe,” Eddie allows. “But I won’t hold my breath.”

“You sure about that?” Tozier raises an eyebrow and tugs at the collar of his sweatshirt. “Smells like the sauna at a truckstop down here.”

Eddie snorts. It is kind of oppressively warm down here, with all the utilities running through the corridor. Through the cellophane window at the top of the bakery box, he can see the cream cheese frosting on his cupcakes is already sagging for lack of refrigeration. _May as well,_ he thinks, and shoves his finger into the lid to break the sticker seal. “You want one?”

“No, thank you,” says Tozier, but he licks his lip.

“Aren’t you supposed to be _honest_ with protectees so that they know they can trust you?” Eddie pulls out the cupcake with the most impressive glob of frosting, perfectly dusted in Oscar gold confetti sprinkles. He holds it out to Tozier and fixes him with the same unwavering stare his father employs to bend mighty men to his will.

“That’s more about handling emergencies...”

Eddie waves the cupcake. “It’s melting. It’s an emergency. Take it before it makes my hand all sticky already, would ya?”

Tozier gives in. He unwraps the bottom in a shower of crumbs and practically unhinges his jaw, biting the whole thing in half. “Fanks,” he chews. Before Eddie can pry out a cupcake of his own, he scarfs the rest of it and starts licking his fingers clean.

“How’d a slob like you end up in a job like this?” Eddie asks, horrified.

“I had a _really good_ senior thesis,” Tozier winks.

“That’s probably easier when you’re not getting hauled out of class all the time because someone sneezed within ten yards of the President.” Eddie nips at his own cupcake with bitter dignity. “What was it on?”

He may as well ask, if they're gonna be stuck here until the bomb squad can clear the house and Mom’s car. What else has he got going on? He didn’t bring his homework along to go to a party.

“My friends and I created software to analyze nonverbal communication in crowds. I thought it’d be neat to identify the social factor of humor, but Bill was really into his criminology minor and it just kept morphing,” Tozier shrugs. “Our professor told us to try for a federal grant and... one thing lead to another. Bill and Mike washed out of training but I got recruited and like, it’s an honor, you know?”

Eddie hums. “That’s kinda cool, actually.”

“Thanks, dude.”

“' _Dude’_ ,” Eddie points out, grinning.

Tozier grimaces. “Sir.”

“No, don’t take it back. I’m sick of being sir’ed and Kaspbrak’ed all the time.”

“We’re not supposed to use our protectee’s-”

“-first name. Yeah, I know.” Eddie carefully peels at his cupcake wrapper so he can nibble off the muffin top without making a mess. “You want another one? Come sit.”

“We’re not supposed to sit, either,” Tozier reminds him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie grumbles. “ _Neither_ of us is allowed to have any fun.”

Since Tozier can’t sit, Eddie decides to stand up, too. He pushes up to his feet, bringing the box of cupcakes with him.

At this challenge, Tozier takes another. He goes a little easier on this second cupcake, like he’s not trying to finish it before he can be noticed enjoying himself. “So, what _did_ you want to do, Spaghetti?” he smirks.

“Tonight?” Eddie stuffs a bite of cupcake in his mouth to disguise his own smile. Maybe Spaghetti’s not his favorite thing to be called, but his codename is meant special just for him, at least. 

“With your life. You said the President ‘made’ you go to college.”

Eddie blows out a hard breath and bugs his eyes. It feels like it was a different person who dreamed up all of his abandoned goals. “I didn't think he’d win,” Eddie admits. “It’s like, insane to think that your dad would end up being the most powerful person on the planet, right?”

“Sure. But my dad’s a dentist,” Tozier shares. “They don’t hand out big red buttons to people who can’t resist poking their fingers in things.” He smears a dollop of frosting off his cupcake with a finger and pops it into his mouth, to illustrate.

Eddie chuckles. “Okay, well, _my dad_ specifically.”

“You thought he’d just keep being Senator,” Tozier nods. “That’s reasonable.”

“Yeah! As soon as the election was over, I was gonna get the hell out of here,” Eddie tells him. “I was gonna go work with the Red Cross, as far away as that would take me, but- he won. And Dad didn’t want me ending up in some warlord’s trunk in Sub-Saharan Africa. Didn’t even want me to leave the East Coast, in case he needed to wheel me out at a moment’s notice ‘cause Mom wasn’t camera ready,” Eddie huffs a sour laugh. He’ll probably have to drop everything and head to D.C. to go look stable tomorrow, considering tonight’s events. “So, I stayed. But if I was gonna be in the States, I couldn’t drop out of college, ‘cause I’m suddenly like, a fucking posterchild for our generation.”

“Right.” Tozier’s brow knits into a shape of genuine sympathy. “And you didn’t sign up for that.”

“No.” Eddie shifts his back against the wall, unable to hide.

Tozier just keeps looking at him like maybe he does know something about how intentions and potential get all mixed up until you’re somewhere you never expected to be on Oscars night, underground with a box of melting cupcakes.

“You know, Spaghetti, you’re doing okay,” he says. “You’re still doing domestic relief work, and you’re not a total asshole like most of these Ivy League kids.”

Eddie scrunches his nose. “You can call me an asshole but not my name?”

“I said you _weren’t_ , but now I think I spoke too soon,” Tozier grins back. “Anyway,” he coughs. “Four years’ll be over before you know it, and then you can do whatever you want.”

Eddie can only hope. “Hey, check back in then, if you want a job crowbarring me out of trunks.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Though, that’s probably not the way I’d phrase it to my parents...”

“Uh oh,” Tozier points.

Eddie looks down, and his melting cupcake is cracking in two. “Oh fuck,” he laughs, and hurries to catch the chunk that’s calving off. He crams it in his mouth before it can get his hand all gooey.

“Slob," Tozier rolls his eyes.

“You distracted me!”

Not such a bad thing, in a lockdown, really.

  
  


09:00

Richie doesn’t wake up Eddie until the second sweep. A gentle touch rocks Eddie by the shoulder until he opens his eyes to Richie’s smirk.

“All right. Take two on Sunday morning, aaand go!”

Eddie gropes around the floor and checks his phone for the time. “Nine?” It’s an even later start than he had adjusted for, and having to pick up sticks to leave New York was already throwing a wrench into the works. “Dude, I’m gonna have to work through dinner to get the next section to Bev on time. When I said wake me up at-”

“You won’t,” Richie says. He sounds as grudgingly fond as you might when tossing a meatball from your own plate to the dog. “You needed the sleep or you were gonna be useless, Kaspbrak. Quit at six, and then _I’ll_ take a pass at the proofreading.”

It’s not the first time he’s maneuvered Eddie into such a trade. Eddie calls it ‘ambushing’, Richie calls it ‘enforced delegation’. 

Eddie sighs. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Richie says.

  
  
  
10:00

“I think it’d be an overreaction to move house entirely,” Richie tells him, after conferring with his team. “The traffic on the post was pathetically low when the guys took it down. And yeah, _probably_ it was Bowers that doxxed you, but he’s not an unknown, so we’ll get him soon. If it wasn’t him? Whenever we track them down, Stan Stan the Law Man’ll throw the book at them, same as always.”

“Stan retired from practice when Patty got elected,” Eddie reminds Richie. "I need a new lawyer."

“Fuck, I keep forgetting about that! When are they gonna invite us over?”

“We’ve _lived_ at the White House already, remember?”

“ _You_ did.”

“You were there, too, numbnuts.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t get to like, defile the Lincoln Bedroom.”

Eddie shudders. “Okay, now you’re never gonna get invited. I’ll get Dad to perma-ban you.”

  
  


11:00

Eddie watches and rewatches interview clips, making note of timestamps he’d like to use a still of for this section. Then when he knuckles down to writing an introduction on lobbying reform, he prods Richie for nitpicky opinions.

“Is it very douchey or _extremely_ douchey to put bunny ears on ‘educate’ in: Lobbyists look for opportunities to educate relevant staff...?”

“Oh, Spaghetti. Anyone who’s reading the book version of a film they can sit back and watch while they house a bag of Cheetos and jerk off is already on your side. Go full bunny ears.”

Eddie moves his cursor and drops in the punctuation. “If Bev red pens it I’m ratting you out. Also- why the fuck are they jerking off with Cheeto fingers? To a documentary about gun law reform!?”

Richie snorts. “Make sure your author portrait takes up the whole back cover, maybe they’ll jerk off to the book, too. What do I fuckin’ know?”

“Not how to look up porn like a normal person, that’s for sure.”

  
  


12:00

On the arm of the couch, Eddie’s phone lights up with a scheduled reminder, _Change For Basketball_ , immediately followed by a feeble pop up alerting him to it’s dying battery. He taps in his passcode and the 10% battery drops to 5%. He just barely pulls up the menu in time to see he’s had his Bluetooth on all day. No wonder it’s drained. Before the screen goes black he guiltily flicks it off, since Richie doesn’t approve of hackable signals when they’re supposed to be laying low like this.

“Ah fuck,” he realizes. “I left my charger in the car.” Eddie starts to put aside his laptop to get up and go retrieve it, but Richie swats him back down.

“I got it,” he says automatically. “Your ass is under lockdown, remember?”

“First I’m not allowed to play basketball, and now I’m not even allowed to stand up?” Eddie whines back. “What am I supposed to do for exercise so I don’t fucking atrophy?”

Richie braces himself with one hand on the back of the couch as he gets up, leaning and looming over Eddie. What the fuck time did _he_ get up this morning in order to manage a shower before they left, that he’s smelling this fucking good? “Don’t worry, we can chase each other up and down the stairs later,” he grins.

Christ. What about just chasing each other upstairs and into the nearest bed? Fuck coming back down again.

Eddie watches Richie go and shrug on his jacket and double check the placement of his keys, his phone, his gun. Then he heads out the door toward the car, locking the door behind him. It’s too bad he’s just grabbing Eddie’s cord. If he was making a full sweep Eddie might have time to take this edge off before he gets back and then fucking _behave himself_ for a few hours. One of them has to.

For a moment, Eddie considers breaking for a shower when suddenly he hears a noise that makes him think one of his background tabs must have started spontaneously playing.

 _Crack_ CRACK _CRACK_

Gunfire.

Eddie freezes to his core. That’s a handgun- that’s not a rifle with all the insane attachments that Bowers himself had once been so proud to demonstrate for him, that should be impossible for civilians to get their hands on. That’s got to be Richie.

As soon as he connects the sound with Richie, he’s in motion, letting his laptop slide away and crash to the floor as he bolts upright. He doesn’t even have shoes on as he fumbles with the lock on the door, but there’s no way in hell he’s stopping. There’s a peephole, but he doesn’t bother with that either, throwing the door open and rushing out.

He doesn’t have to look far. Eddie’s eyes fall on what’s wrong as though it's underlined in a squiggly red like his manuscript. A few yards away in the driveway, Richie slumps against the passenger side of the car, nearly on the ground. The front door is open and a sickening streak of red marks his collapse down the back.

It doesn’t matter if Bowers is still out there, waiting for Eddie to give himself away, Eddie screams, unable to care.

“RICHIE!”

His socked feet crunch painfully on the gravel between stepping stones as he stumbles along, diving to his knees and catching Richie around the middle. He doesn’t have enough hands, he realizes, to stopper the wet, blooming holes in his body _and_ hold his neck, check his pulse, check his eyes, check that he’s still breathing.

“Oh fuck, Richie, please-“

At the sound of his voice, clenched eyes open. “G-got him,” Richie gasps. “But-“

Eddie shoots a glance over his shoulder, following Richie’s eyeline to a prone figure in a tangled mess in a neighbor’s garden. He must have posted up on a roof and fell when Richie returned fire. Hopefully he snapped his fucking neck, and if he didn’t, Eddie’ll do gladly do the honors himself. Richie sputters, and instantly Eddie snaps back to him, fury melting away.

“ _Eddie,_ ” Richie squeezes out his cringing mouth, along with a dribble of blood. “ _Listen-_ ”

Even without the blood, calling him by _name-_ Eddie feels like he’s been pierced through the gut, too. “Richie, Richie, this is- this is _bad_ but you'll be okay. You've gotta be okay,” he says softly, trying to help, trying again to cover his wounds. He thinks maybe it’s Richie’s lung? Can he breathe? Eddie knows he’ll have to apply pressure, but will he need to breathe for him, too? He can hardly breathe for himself. “We need to-“

“C-call M-mike.” Richie’s eyes flutter like they’ll close again. Eddie can’t let them shut forever.

He needs to get Richie help, get Mike to raise the alarm and tell him what the fuck to do to keep Richie alive in the meanwhile. He tries to do the Serious Voice like Richie does, the one that wraps him up, safe and secure when he feels like he’s rattling apart, when the stress is too much. Those short, direct sentences that Richie uses to break the tidal wave of Eddie’s anxiety. “I will,” he says, deep and with a calm that doesn’t make it all the way to his shaking hands. “Hang on. _Please_.”

With numbing fingers he peels into Richie’s bloody jacket, where just a few moments ago he watched him drop his phone into his pocket, and thank fuck, thank God, _whoever_ , it’s not damaged. His own dead phone is still inside the house and who knows where his cord is- here in the driveway or in the car, sure, but no way in hell was he going to leave Richie alone to reunite the two. He smears the screen with blood, hammering in Richie’s passcode. 1035, the cost of a movie ticket at some cineplex they went to a million years ago. It was some trashy, forgettable flick, and Eddie can’t remember which of them paid anymore, but they ribbed each other about who _really_ owed who for making them witness such an atrocity for years, so naturally it was one of the numbers considered the last time Richie had to program a new phone. They always made sure they knew each other’s phone- just in case something like _this_ happened.

There’s a panic button on the first page of apps, programmed to alert authorities and immediately speaker a call to Richie’s support team. Eddie pounds it and drops the phone again so he can press his hands over Richie’s and keep him from spilling any more of himself onto the driveway. It only takes one beep until someone picks up, but it feels like an eternity.

“Richie, what’s happening?” says Mike, at alert.

Eddie winces at the assumption that if Richie’s phone is the one calling, he must be fine. He’s _not_ fine, he needs Eddie to take care of him for once, the way he’s always fearlessly looked after Eddie.

“Mike, Richie got shot!”

“Where are _you_ right now, Eddie?” Mike asks first, because that’s the job. Eddie _hates_ it, but that’s their priority. He does muffle off mic to Bill or whoever is in the office with him, though. “ _Code Purple in Stirling_.”

Under his hands, Richie sighs. Is it relief? Or is the last of his air escaping as a lung collapses? Eddie clamps his hands tighter to Richie, ignoring their sick, slippery coating. LICENCE TO CHILL is illegible under the tangle of their fingers and the spread of blood that plasters the material to his chest.

“I’m fine! We’re out in front of the safehouse-”

“Get _back in the house_!” Mike commands.

This job, this stupid fucking job that Eddie fucking hired Richie for, where his life is somehow worth more than Richie’s-

“ _Shhh. Shh_ , don't worry, Richie. I’m not leaving you,” he murmurs to Richie first, in case he’s lost enough blood to light-headedly entertain the insane notion that Eddie would ever do such a thing.

"Eddie are you listening?"

“I can’t leave him here!” he barks back at Mike. He knows what can happen if Richie passes out or goes into shock, if he doesn’t have Eddie here to help hold him together. “Richie, Richie?” he tries to get him to respond. His eyes are closed again and skin is waxy as a candle- and the boring white kind, not the Festive But Somehow Always For The Wrong Season kind Richie has cluttered up the house with.

“Eddie, Richie would want you to be safe! Get back-”

Eddie glances over his shoulder again at the neighbor’s yard. It’s the same as before. Those three shots Richie laid out did it, all right. “He’s- he got Bowers, it’s fine, _I’m fine_ , Mike! Richie’s- he’s bleeding from the front and back? His chest- he’s- I _need_ Richie more than I-”

“Wait, wait- he got Bowers?” Mike pauses to confirm. “Is Bowers dead?”

“Yeah, fuck, _who cares?_ ” Eddie huffs. “One less fucking nut shooting shit up. Why aren’t I hearing sirens yet, Mike?!”

“They’re on their way, Eddie.”

Eddie holds his breath painfully against the wailing in his chest, and strains to hear that of an ambulance instead. Failing that, he swings his head closer to Richie, pressing his ear to his weakening body, as though he’d know what to listen for. He has no idea what the difference between survivable and fatal injury would sound like, he only knows that there’s a heart in there, because it matches his own perfectly. He squeezes close, but he doesn’t hear anything that calls to him through his mental panic like he wants. Like Richie always can. Nothing that says _Hey, Spaghetti. We’re doing okay, you and me._

“Can't I just put him in the car?” Eddie tries. He starts to pry one of Richie’s arms away from his body to wrap it around his neck so he can hoist him to his feet. “You can tell me the way to the nearest-”

Richie whimpers.

“Gonna be okay,” Eddie grunts, moving to get his legs under himself and Richie’s deadweight. Now would be a great time for Richie to fucking cooperate for once.

“Eddie, _no_ ,” says Mike.

“Fuck you! I’ll use GPS, then-”

“Listen to me!” Mike shouts. “Do not get in the car! Everything in this guy’s profile indicates that he’s skilled enough to have killed Richie instantly. He only bloodied him, right? And he knows the difference between you two. He knew who he was aiming at- he did this to _draw you out_.”

‘Bloodied’! Bloodied is the first broken nose in a bare knuckle boxing match. Not _this_. Mike’s not looking at what Eddie’s looking at. He’s not watching the love of his life bleed out in fucking New Jersey.

“It fucking worked, Mike, I’m out of the house!” Eddie growls. There are bitter tears stinging at his face and rolling into the corners of his mouth. “But he’s not gonna get me and he’s not gonna take Richie, either! I’m getting him to the hospital-“

“ _Nnnggeddie_.” Richie’s head lolls on his shoulder, his teeth bared in pain.

“Hold on, Richie, _please just hold on_ , please fucking hold on, _I can’t lose you_ -“

Mike huffs. “There is every chance Bowers rigged the car, Eddie! Do not get in!”

One of Richie’s hands grasps hard at his shoulder then, like he agrees. Eddie stops trying to convince him to get up.

“ _Fuck_. I won’t. Fuck, I’m sorry, Richie.” 

Richie must have realized. He must have thought if Eddie just called Mike, he’d know Bowers was drawing him out. He’d warn Eddie. _Don’t get in the insecure exploding car, you fucking idiot._ Didn’t Richie say once that that was Bowers’ whole thing? He wanted Eddie dead but he didn’t want to prove him right? He couldn’t just shoot him and make him another gun violence statistic.

“S’okay,” Richie hisses. His head droops lower and lower. “Just... stay with me.”

Their hands are joined again. Eddie wishes he could enjoy that. He wishes, too, he could be holding Richie wrapped up in his arms like this, but not like this at all.

“I’m here,” he tells Richie, softly. Eddie lets his tear stained cheek press to his forehead. Richie’s glasses poke his chin. “You gotta stay with me, too, buddy. _Talk to me_. Talk to me, please, Rich. Anything-”

The struggle to do so is evident. “Fuckin’... ruined my shirt,” Richie chokes.

“Ugh, shut the fuck up!”

There’s a tiny noise of amusement in Richie’s throat. “Which is it?”

“Keep talking, just keep talking,” Eddie half sobs, half laughs.

“Mmkay.” Richie takes a sharp breath. “So...d’you have... a Tide pen?”

“I-” _I love you_ , Eddie thinks. “I- I changed my mind. Shut up again.”

Eddie can hear the ambulance coming, now. _Finally_. He’ll make them take him to the hospital, too. Whatever he has to say. He’ll name drop his father, he’ll say some of this blood is his or he’ll claim he’s having chest pains, or that they’re married and _it’s his fucking right_ to be by Richie’s side- none of it will be much of a stretch.

“Hey... Eddie,” Richie wheezes at his shoulder. “Tell... my wife...”

“Shh, shh.” Eddie turns into his brow and brushes his lips there. “I said shut up.”

But Richie’s voice is too weak to hear over the sirens, anyway.

  
  


01:00

Eddie knows everything there is to know about Richie, so he sleepwalks through filling out his patient history. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands when they take the forms away again. He doesn’t know what to do when they take Richie from the E.R. into surgery. They lead him to another waiting room. He stares, at the wall, at the floor, his feet. He still doesn’t have any shoes.

He’s surprised when Richie’s phone rings in his pocket, because he can’t remember picking it up when the EMTs came. Mike and Bill have to deal with the FBI and get to the safehouse themselves, so they woke Ben up early to check on him. He’s arranging to pick up Eddie’s things and get them a hotel where there won’t be caution tape and a pool of blood out front. Eddie promises to stay put at the hospital until Ben gets there, but he doesn’t mention that he’ll insist on staying until he can see Richie again no matter how late this goes.

“Okay. Change of clothes. Find your shoes, your phone-” Ben lists out loud.

“-I need a cord. You might have to buy one, I don’t know where mine wound up with everything going on...”

Ben agrees instantly. “Yeah, I can buy that, it’s no problem. I can buy anything you need. I’ll get dinner, too. What else?”

Eddie watches the door to the surgical floor where Richie disappeared. He wishes he knew what was happening. He wishes he could go back and unfuck every stupid mistake he’s ever made that lead to this. He wishes he could protect Richie, instead of it always being the other way around.

He sighs. “I dunno, man. How much bubble wrap would it take to cover a guy that tall?”

Ben laughs. “I’ll run the numbers.”

  
  


02:00

Richie’s still in surgery. He’s still in all these pictures on the phone in Eddie’s hands. He’s still under his nails, and on his shirt and jeans and socks. Eddie hasn’t seen this much blood since he worked with the Red Cross.

He never made it out to Africa with them, but they did partner on a nationwide college blood drive campaign. It was mostly PR work, him lending his high profile to their mission, but they showed him their operational ropes, too. Testing and processing the donations into components, packaging, storage, and eventual transfusion. He met people whose lives had been saved and those who did the saving. It was while visiting hospitals with them that Eddie saw the toll of gun violence firsthand, and took the first steps of his own mission.

It was then that he first started to pinpoint what it was he felt for Richie.

All of Eddie’s friends came to donate with him at some point, obviously. Bev turned out to be O negative, the universal donor, so she really committed to joining Eddie as often as possible. Stan and Patty made plenty of appearances, too, and even Dad came in with him one time, which was a complete circus. Not as hard as getting Richie on board, though.

He dodged it for months. At first he said it wouldn’t be allowed during duty- and Eddie could see the sense in that. People get woozy giving blood, and you want to be at your best when you’re armed and responsible for someone else’s safety. Fair enough. So then Eddie tried to catch Richie when he wasn’t working- but everytime they almost had a plan, at the last moment he’d have switched shifts with one of the other agents and wound up accompanying Eddie only as his security. Finally they hit the breaking point.

“What is it with you?” Richie groaned, and started to walk faster, passing Eddie. “You’re obsessed!”

Eddie chased after him, which was not the way this whole agent/protectee thing was supposed to go. “What is it with _you_? This is important to me.”

“Great! It should be, it’s good work. You can give as much blood as you like, I’m not stopping you.”

Eddie thought maybe he knew what this was all about. _Ego_. Richie was still a show-off, after all, even though Eddie had since come to like that about him. “Are you scared of needles, Mr. Glock?” he teased, skipping along.

“It’s a SIG.”

“Haha, I’m not hearing a ‘no’...”

Richie turned a corner into a hallway with no one in it. He crossed his arms and turned on Eddie, an uncomfortable twist to his usually smirky mouth. “I’m not eligible to donate,” he said.

Eddie thought for a moment. There were dozens of incidental reasons people were excluded from giving blood. Obviously Richie didn't have like, a history of cancer if he made it through training for the Secret Service, but who knows _?_ “Have you had a transfusion before, or a tattoo or like, been to a country with malaria without me, or something?”

“Or something, yeah,” Richie nodded, curt. Eddie didn’t know what he had to be so embarrassed about. He could have just said. “I have to wait out a twelve month window.”

“Did they borrow you for Mom’s detail in Brazil?” Eddie can’t remember who went last winter, but a lot of staff got shuffled around for it.

“No, it was, uh-”

“Since we met? When?”

“Spaghetti...”

“I’m just trying to figure out when I _can_ make you donate, dude. Look at you,” Eddie gestured at his broad build, hands stopping just shy of landing on Richie’s chest. “You’re like, the perfect specimen. Do you know your type?”

Richie looked down at him, finally smiling. “Same as you.”

“B positive?” That made Eddie feel sort of proud and warm, _hot_ even, in the pit of his stomach. It was like they shared a secret. Like they were made of the same stuff and would always be connected. Like they were inside each other.

“Next time, I’ll be in the clear,” Richie promised.

He waited with Eddie during his draw, and got him a drink and snack and helped him up afterward, his strong arm tucked around Eddie’s waist. It was and wasn’t a surprise to Eddie how much he liked it. He leaned into Richie’s shoulder- still Tozier, to him at the time- and thought it was a shame he could only do this every eight weeks.

He’s wised up since then. When he stopped getting the kid glove treatment a year or two past Dad's term, he finally looked at the paperwork and the donation qualifications for himself. Richie had never told him outright, but it was obvious in hindsight the same way it was obvious about Eddie, with his conspicuous avoidance of certain topics. The only difference was the MSM deferral never mattered to Eddie since he’d never slept with anyone, as singularly devoted as he was.

Richie did give blood the next time, and they still donate together, as often as their travelling will allow. If Eddie’s last trip hadn’t been three weeks ago, he’d find a phlebotomist right now. Offer himself up. Insist that they take anything they need, direct from his veins. Everything in him already belongs to Richie, anyway.

  
  


03:00

He’s starting to notice that he hasn’t eaten since the diner this morning. Maybe he should have eaten more.

Tell you what he should have done- he should have paid more attention to Richie, sitting across the table, sipping his coffee and toying with the syrup jug. It was one of those ones with a hinged lid, and he was making it mouth along as he passionately defended his choice to put ketchup on waffles. Eddie should have tried it just to make Richie smile at him, one more time. That’s the thing he’s hungriest for, above all.

Eddie considers getting up and looking for some real food. There’s a cafeteria around here somewhere- but he doesn’t want to stray too far, in case there’s news. He thinks he saw a vending machine in the hallway he came here by? But Ben should be here soon with something that’ll keep him going. He starts paying attention to the faces that come and go, expecting that any one of them might be him. One or two patients do a double take, maybe because of his clothes, maybe because of the family resemblance, but all the pros ignore him as they power through- that is, until the woman in impractical heels that say _Administration_ loud and clear.

She stops in front of him, hands folded in front of her immaculate tailoring. “Edward Kaspbrak?” she asks.

Eddie’s stomach sinks. What’d they do, get the biggest paycheck in the building to come down and break it to him? He feels doubly dizzy when he stands to meet her. “Yes?”

“There’s a phone call for you.”

This he did not expect.

Eddie shuffles along, hot on her clicking heels, and finds himself in a private exam room where she pulls a landline off the wall and dials to pick up an extension.

“Mr. President? Yes, I have him right here,” she confirms, before handing Eddie the phone. As soon as he’s got it she clicks away again to give them some privacy.

Of course Dad would hear about this. He still has buddies in all the major agencies, and plugging the Kaspbrak name into the system at the FBI must raise some kind of alarm. He takes a breath and croaks into the receiver. “Hello? Dad?”

“Hello, son of mine,” he answers.

Eddie feels like a boy, called into his father's office. There ought to be an imposing piece of antique furniture that he’s afraid to sit on instead of a papered exam table. “Son of mine? That’s what you call me when I’m in trouble.”

“Aren't you?” There’s no hard edge to the question. Dad’s just worried, not angry. “You were involved in a shooting and you weren’t answering your phone. Your mother’s been beside herself.”

“Oh shit.” Apparently Eddie has caused even more agony than he realized. “I’m okay, Dad. I’m fine. Tell Mom I’m fine. It’s just- my phone died and I was gonna go get the cord, but then Richie said he’d get it because we’re in lock down and I should have- I should’ve turned off my Bluetooth. I’ve been sitting, thinking how this could’ve happened and- and that’s it! He _must_ have tracked it right to us. _It_ _was my fault_ ,” Eddie sniffs. “Whatever happens to Richie is my fault.” He squeezes the bridge of his nose hard, until that stings more than the fresh wave of tears threatening to burst forth. 

“Eddie, you didn’t do this. You may make mistakes, but that’s not the same as being in the wrong,” Dad says firmly. He’s got a Serious Voice even more seasoned than Richie’s. “How is he?”

Eddie sinks down the wall where the phone is hung, limbs splayed like a broken toy. “I don’t know. He’s been in surgery almost three hours? I don’t know what’s going on in there.”

“This is a very good hospital, Eddie. It must be, if Richie picked a safehouse near it.”

Eddie tries to control his breathing and considers the truth of that. Richie made all kinds of considerations for his comfort and safety, that he probably took for granted.

“He wouldn’t stick us somewhere that we couldn’t get emergency donuts,” Eddie smiles weakly. “Nevermind decent medical care.”

“He’ll pull through.”

“He...” Eddie wouldn’t dare disagree, but optimism is not one of his better exercised muscles. That’s one of many things that he’s come to rely on Richie for. He chokes off a sob. “Sorry, I can’t do this.”

Not without him. Not any of it.

“I know,” Dad says. “I know you can’t stand to watch people suffer.”

“Get that from you,” Eddie huffs, battling away the tears running down his face. Some dried blood that he missed when he first washed up comes away on his fingers.

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

There’s a long pause in the conversation that Eddie doesn’t know how to fill, even though there’s plenty of things he’s never said to his father, hanging in the air. He pulls up his knees and cries into them instead.

“You know,“ Dad starts. “-it took me awhile to figure out why, after I put the family through the mother of all stress tests and we failed it so miserably, you chose the life that you did.”

Eddie wipes his chin on his kneecap and frowns. “What?”

“I don’t mean _you_ failed, son. But I did. And Lord knows your mother suffered and you had to be the one to make up for it.”

“Dad-“

“No, no, don’t interrupt. I have a pretty good point I’m gonna get to, sit tight,” he says. Eddie can hear the creak of an office chair as Dad gets comfortable, himself. “The truth is- after years of ropelines and reporters and death threats and every pitfall there is to being in the public eye, I thought you’d run the other way as soon as I was out of office. You're like me, after all, and _I_ did,” he admits. “I saw what that life had done to your mother, and I love her, and I knew it was time to step back so I could take care of her-“

Eddie shifts uncomfortably. He’s not in a good position to defend himself, on several levels, but he won’t just sit and take this. “If you’re trying to tell me to quit my career and shelve my doc, you’re out of your mind, Dad. _Especially_ now. Richie might _die_ for it.”

Dad sighs over the phone. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying- leaving the constant crisis of the White House was clarifying for us. I left to go spend more time with the person I love, because she needed the quiet life. And what did you do? You could have done _anything_ with my name and Yale diploma- or nothing! We have enough money for it. You could have restored old cars, or walked into the UN, picked any organization you liked and been the head of it by now. WHO. WFP. UNICEF. No one would have bothered you like they used to, politicizing your every move and chasing you around... You could have done anything,” he repeats. ”Anything- and you picked a fight with a five million member organization that you _knew_ was armed and dangerous.”

“-You make it sound like I have some kind of death wish,” Eddie swallows. “Like I asked for this.”

“No,” Dad laughs again. “No, you took the risks seriously when you asked Richie to work for you.”

“I had to hire security.”

“There were plenty of already established private security companies to pick from. You had to have _him_ ,” Dad says, pointedly.

So this is it, then. Eddie’s most closely held secret isn’t so secret after all, to the shrewd observer. Of course, he could keep making excuses and denials and they wouldn’t even be lies. _There’s nothing going on there, honest._ Eddie would laugh if he wasn’t so miserable. Probably Dad thinks they’ve been carrying on for years behind closed doors. After all, waiting four years to start something made sense while Dad was in office- but another decade beyond that? What the hell is _wrong_ with him?

“So,” Eddie exhales. “You can understand now. I did the same thing as you after the White House.”

He found a way to keep hold of the person he loved most.

Dad hums. “That’s my boy.”

  
  


04:00

This may not be the most gracefully Eddie’s ever eaten a chicken wrap, but it is the most grateful he’s ever been for one. Ben politely ignores the ranchy scraps of lettuce that litter his already ruined shirt and gets him up to speed with the new arrangements.

As Richie suspected, Bowers’ IP address was the one to doxx Eddie in an effort to flush him out, but just because he’s dead, that doesn’t mean they should rush back home. He ran with a circle of other harassers who may well have the same information, so Mike and Bill will be looking for any evidence of conspiracy that can put them behind bars.

At least until Richie is out of the hospital, they’ll stay at a nearby hotel. That suits Eddie just fine, since he can imagine neither leaving Richie here, or being alone in their shared home. Even with Ben in Richie’s office, it wouldn’t be right without the constant buzz of his Dad Rock and the humid waft of his post-shower routine in the morning. (Eddie sleeps with his door to the hallway open more often than not so he can be sure to wake to the sound and smell of Richie, close by. It’s pathetic, but how else was he going to sustain himself for all this time?)

After his wrap, Eddie ducks into the nearest bathroom with his duffel bag and trashes his clothes. He doesn’t really register what fresh items he pulls on, but he isn’t all that surprised when he checks his reflection. The yellow rugby shirt has long been his go-to when he needs a boost.

When he comes back from the bathroom, Ben has moved their things to a different corner of the waiting room where Eddie’s laptop and phone can be plugged in. Along with a new cord, he bought flowers on Eddie’s behalf, bundled in a square of bubble wrap and laid on top of Richie’s bag.

“You didn’t have to, uh- I should have thought of that myself. If _you’d_ rather, since you’re the one who thought of getting flowers-“

Ben just shakes his head with a kind smile. “It won’t mean the same, coming from me.”

  
  


05:00

Richie’s phone is so chock full of A-Listers his company has consulted with alongside stupid nicknames, there was no way for Eddie to know if calling _Lois Lane_ was going to get him Beverly or Amy Adams. He couldn't take that risk. When he finally gets his own phone souped up again, she’s his first call.

“Oh my god, Eddie,” she gasps on the other end. “Yeah, forget our timeline honey, that’s not important _at all_.”

“Okay, thanks. Yeah...”

Of course Eddie didn’t think she was going to be a stickler under these circumstances, but he does wish he’d managed to call her sooner. She’d prioritized a day’s work for nothing now that he wouldn’t be able to swap passages with her, sure, but beyond that, she’s his and Richie’s friend. She's really upset.

“Where are you?” she asks “Can I come see you?”

Technically, Eddie is still under lockdown, so he turns to Ben for approval. “Can I tell my co-producer where we are?”

Ben lights up. “You mean Beverly Marsh? Well, sure!”

Eddie turns back to his phone call. “Robert Wood Johnson. Can you come tonight?”

“Yeah. _Shit_. I don’t think I’ll be able to think about anything else,” Bev tells him. “God. I just can’t believe this happened.”

It occurs to Eddie, then, that being his producing partner on the documentary and generally speaking- _a Woman With Opinions in media_ \- Beverly has attracted her own rogues gallery. Whether or not she’d heard from Bowers and his people this time around, certainly Richie has investigated threats she’s received, in the past. This could have just as easily have been _her_.

“Are you... Do you want, uh-? You can stay in my room at the hotel if you want,” he offers. “I’m not gonna be able to leave the hospital until I can see him, anyway, and some of Richie’s guys will be there...”

She’ll be safe with them. That’s one less worry.

“Okay. Yeah, I’ll uhm. I’ll be there. I’m really sorry this happened, Eddie.”

"Me too."

  
06:00

He’s supposed to be done with work for the day. He was going to hand off his laptop to Richie after his last sweep, and then he’d sit with it at the kitchen island and nitpick Eddie’s grammar while he cooked their dinner. _Those fucking steaks_. Even before he got doxxed- he was supposed to be grilling them in the backyard at home, not _inside_ at the safehouse. 

If it was any other day, Ben would be taking over surveillance for the night, possibly remotely. He and Richie were gonna have a few drinks and enjoy the evening. It was unseasonably warm for November, so along with grilling, they had been talking about setting up the projector on the back wall of the garage to watch _Jaws_ or something else that complemented sitting in the grass with a buzz and the smoky taste of barbecue and a boy that you really like. As he has for years, Eddie would tell himself it wasn’t the time. There was some perfect, uncomplicated moment coming one of these days that he should wait for. He wouldn’t do anything but joke and relish every smirk he earned like it was a kiss under the stars.

Now even that imperfect moment had been taken away.

Enough waiting.

07:00

They’re moving Richie to recovery soon, but while Eddie waits for a glimpse of him, Bill calls.

“We’ll be there with the FBI in fifteen minutes or so? Obviously they have some questions for you.”

“Uh, yeah,” says Eddie, distracted by the opening of a door. Some blonde woman in the gurney. Nevermind. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  
  


08:00

There was an explosive device rigged to Eddie’s car; another tally in the Richie Was Right column. He would have discovered it himself on one of his later sweeps, or certainly before allowing Eddie to start the engine if they had taken an excursion to the supermarket or the gym. The authorities will take a few days to really pick his car over before he can take it to the shop to repair the damage from the bullet that passed through Richie. Bill is talking rentals, trying to be helpful, but Eddie’s thinking he’d rather just get a new car. Unless he’s obstructing justice, right now he really doesn’t want to be part of any conversation that’s keeping him from Richie’s side.

He makes a quick exception when Beverly arrives. She throws her arms around his neck and hangs on tight, and Eddie had no idea how badly he needed a hug until he’s wrapped up in one. She holds his hand when he finally gets in to see Richie. He’s still unconscious and breathing with an oxygen mask, but he’s there, alive. Eddie lets go of Beverly’s hand to unhook Richie’s glasses from his shirt and put them back where they belong.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, letting his thumb graze Richie’s cheek, above the mask. “You can un-shut up, now.”

  
  


09:00

Beverly drags off Ben and Bill and Mike to go give blood, since that’s her usual M.O. in a medical setting. Eddie feels equally drained. His chair is pulled up close to Richie’s bedside so he can lean at the edge. He’s so fucking tired, he would try and climb in with Richie and worry about explaining himself later if it weren’t for, you know, all the tubes and monitors and his wound and the fact that if Eddie ever manages to find himself in bed with Richie he’ll be _damned_ if he’s not gonna kiss him.

He should have done it this morning. He should have kissed Richie and then gone right back to bed with him and stayed there, safe together in each other’s arms.

He should have kissed Richie when they first sort-of lived together.

“D’you remember when we were back in Maine?” Eddie asks.

He can imagine Richie’s rote answer. _Ah yes, the Maine Attraction._

Eddie had been finding his feet after college, grant writing for nonprofits and living with Mom up in Derry while Dad was doing the lame duck thing. It was just easier that way. He was able to keep an eye on her there instead of _everyone_ having their eyes on her in D.C.

They were all in a weird sort of limbo. With Eddie no longer at Yale, his coverage in Maine was redundant with Mom’s, so Richie was reassigned to the new Republican frontrunner. That guy was a real hardass and kind of a homophobe, so it didn’t surprise Eddie at all when Richie quit instead of taking this supposed promotion. He couldn’t technically have Richie operate as his protection while he was still in the care of the Secret Service, but he knew he’d need a private guard eventually, so he offered him the guest house to live in while he set up his new company, as well as a retainer for when he _could_ eventually have Richie all to himself.

“Mom had that freak out where she kept changing all the locks on the property. Like, twice a week! As though the house wasn’t crawling with security.” Eddie laughs and adjusts his elbow so he’s leaned a little closer to Richie. “We got sick of keeping up with the new keys to the guest house, so you started leaving your window open. There was that bench for the garden you dragged over to make it easier, I think was like, fifty years old? You ended up putting your foot through it. That was a fun hospital visit. Couple stitches in your leg, and you bitched all summer that you’d ruined yourself for cargo shorts. Anytime someone asked about the scar you said you survived a shark attack. Fuckin’ garden bench.”

They kept using it though, because they were young and dumb, and what’s a little idiocy between friends? Eddie would get tired of whatever mood Mom was in at the main house, pop across the yard, and vault himself through the window to bother Richie instead. Even when Mom stopped changing the locks. Even when Richie rearranged the furniture so his bed was under the window.

Well, maybe he’s accidentally been in bed with Richie once or twice, if you really strained the definition of an ‘accident’.

  
  


10:00

“Then there was the time you promised me we’d rent out a theater for my thirtieth, but instead of getting _Notorious_ the Hitchcock movie, you got the Notorious B.I.G. biopic... God I’m not sure I want you back, actually, you’re kinda useless."

"..."

"That was a pretty good movie, though.”

  
  


11:00

“...I know you don’t like the flooring in the den, but we should probably move you in there for a little while until you’re good enough to do stairs again.”

“Mmm.”

Eddie jolts. He didn’t even have his eyes open. He was all but passed out, head on his folded arms at the edge of the bed. But he definitely heard something. “Richie?”

Everyone but Mike has gone to the hotel, now, and he’s out in the hallway stretching his legs, so it’s just the two of them. No one else could have said anything.

Eddie wavers to his feet, suddenly awake, every system firing. He bends over the bed, to where Richie could see him if he just-

Richie’s eyes flutter. Despite having his glasses, he’s still too out of it to really focus. He rolls his head slightly, murmurs something that sounds like “smack” through his mask, then passes back out.

  
  


12:00

Eddie’s voice is too hoarse to keep talking to Richie. He can’t sleep, won’t sleep, so instead he watches Richie in a way he never really has before. Not for hours, uninterrupted. Not without looking away, or being caught up in sharing a meal, or playing a card game or something. Now he’s soaking himself in details that he’s never been able to linger on before. There’s a spray of freckles on the inside of his left forearm like a horseshoe, and his left temple is more gray than his right. Eddie could count his grays if he wanted. He could run his fingers through them, tuck a messy curl behind Richie’s ear. He’s got a healed piercing there that Eddie’s clocked before, but never really took the time to wonder about. He hadn’t worn an earring at the time they met. Was it a college phase for Richie The Psychology Major, who got recruited by the Feds and then had to button up? Or was it an after-hours thing, maybe, in the days before Eddie was part of Richie’s ‘after-hours’ as well as his work day.

There are still so many things he needs to ask Richie, but mostly just the one question, over and over in his head, for hours. Asleep, awake, talking or quiet.

Waiting for an answer.

  
01:00

_Do you love me?_

  
  
02:00

_Do you love me?_

  
  


03:00

_Do you love me?_

  
  


04:00

Eddie’s been awake for twenty-four hours now, if you don’t count the nap on the couch at the safehouse, or the dozing he’s done here, bowed at Richie’s side for as long as his cramping neck will allow. Twenty-four hours since he got out of bed, anyway. And fuck, he thought he was exhausted _before_.

Maybe it was stupid to insist on staying until he could talk to Richie. That’s kind of his whole deal, though, refusing to turn either of them loose, in some foolish hope that if he just sticks around long enough-

“ _Hey, Macaroni_ ,” Richie rasps, much more clearly this time, since the nurses changed him from a mask to a cannula.

Eddie picks his head up and rubs his eyes, unprepared to believe the evidence of his ears alone. But there he is, licking his chapped lips and looking at Eddie. “Richie, oh god, you’re awake. You-” Eddie wants to touch his face, but he stops shy, dropping his hand at his shoulder and squeezing and he’s _there_ , he’s really there.

"Dry..."

Eddie searches around for what's left of the dinner he scrounged, hours ago. "You want some water?”

Mike stirs in his chair, nodding to wakefulness. “Hmm? Hey, man!” He stands up and comes over to help Richie sit up enough to meet Eddie and his cup of water.

Richie clears his throat. “You look like shit,” he tells Eddie as he pulls away again.

Somehow Eddie conquers the urge to pour the rest of it directly on Richie. “Thanks, asshole.”

“I mean, are you _okay_?” Richie searches him, becoming more alert every moment, if a little crosseyed and goony. He turns to Mike. “Mike! Have you been keeping my Eddie safe?”

“Oh yeah,” Mike yawns, which probably isn’t a great answer to Richie’s concern. He covers his mouth sheepishly. “Yeah. We’re all good. And we’re all really glad you’re still here, Richie.” Mike glances at Eddie, catching him in the middle of what must be an absurdly fond and twisted smile. “I’m- I’m gonna go and uh, call the others.”

“ _Thank you Mikey_ ,” Richie calls after him, sweetly.

Eddie sits back in his chair and chuckles. “Morphine’s fun, huh?”

“That what's up? Holy shit.”

“I guess it beats the hell outta children’s Motrin.”

Richie finds his hands, becomes briefly puzzled with their various medical accessories, and then gives him a feeble double thumbs up. The clouds start to roll away as he focuses on Eddie. He gestures clumsily for him to sit closer again. “How’d you get here, Eddie?” he asks, urgent.

 _Eddie_. Richie’s said it twice now.

“In the ambulance, idiot, same as you.”

Richie drops his head back against his pillow and heaves a relieved, if injured sigh. “Oh good. ‘Cause there was probably a bomb in that car.”

“Yeah, we know Richie. It’s okay.”

“ _You’re_ okay, Eddie?” Richie picks his head back up.

 _Eddie, Eddie, Eddie_ , his heart swells. “Yeah. Yeah. I was just worried about you, _really fucking worried_ , Rich.” He tries again to reach for Richie, and this time he makes contact. His cheek is rough with scruff and dehydration, but still the best thing Eddie’s ever laid his hand on.

“I’m okay if you’re okay,” Richie smiles up at him.

Eddie puffs a laugh that could just have easily have come out as a sob. “You’re not like, _really_ okay, you got fucking _shot_. You’ve had like, surgery and shit.”

“Oh, no way!” Richie croaks a little, so just as soon as Eddie was getting used to the way his hand fit Richie’s face like it was made to be there, he pulls away again to grab the cup of water.

The flowers are laid on the floor close by.

“Uhm.” He primps an oddly folded corner of the wrapping and snaps one of the bubbles nervously before flopping the bouquet into Richie’s lap like a fossilized-by-the-crisper piece of produce into the trash. “These are for you.”

“These are so nice!”

Eddie doesn’t really listen, he dives back down for the water and shoves it in Richie’s face again, in case he’s going to say something else inane before Eddie can do all the fussing and explaining he needs to do. “So, your lung collapsed- and your liver got hit, and you lost almost like, _five_ pints of blood ‘cause the bullet hit some real choice real estate on its way through. Mike and Bill are taking care of everything with the FBI and Ben is going to figure out how to make everyone's schedules work so you can rest, because you’re _definitely_ not getting out of here until Wednesday, but the doctors say you’ll be out of commission for like, at least three months-”

Richie empties the cup. “Three months? What about your screenings?”

Eddie can only shrug and watch Richie keep turning the cogs as his head clears.

“Am I gonna miss your red carpet?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Eddie sighs. “I think the release might be delayed, anyway. I have to stop for awhile.”

They’ve seen each other through half a lifetime of disappointments and yet this may be the saddest look Richie’s ever had.“That sucks, you guys have been working so hard. You should still do the screenings."

"Without you?"

"Take Ben,” Richie suggests in a small voice. “You shouldn’t have to wait for me,” even smaller.

“No," Eddie agrees and disagrees.

It will be his privilege to slow down and take care of Richie for once, but yeah. He really shouldn't wait for him, anymore. He looks at Richie laying there, wounded because he stood by Eddie all this time. He would never leave, and he would never jeopardize anything important to Eddie, but he will never know that _he_ is the most important thing in Eddie’s life if he doesn’t tell him already.

“Richie, I want _you_ to come with me- I want to take you on red carpets and book tours and drive across fucking New Jersey with you and your oldies stations, but uhm,” Eddie gulps. “I want you to come with me like, _everywhere._ Because you want to.”

Richie looks up at Eddie, slightly indignant. “I do want to go places with you.”

“Yeah, I know you’re not like, my hostage, I’m just saying- _ugh,”_ Eddie blows out a breath and leans back in, close to Richie. “I'm hoping you'll want to do it because you- you want to _be with me,_ not because we have a contract.”

Richie goes wide eyed. “I quit,” he blurts out, automatically. “I quit, I want to be with you-“ he says, raising his weak hands as though to reach for him. “ _Eddie-_ “

Eddie’s heart bursts. “You can’t quit, I’m firing you!”

He rushes to Richie, taking his face in his hands, surprised by just how much strength he musters to meet him in the middle. Richie follows him when he tries to pull away, and after all this time, Eddie can't refuse him. Their lips press together until the kiss is as deep as it is overdue. There's no ambience, no dreamlike trappings except for the fact Eddie is barely awake. They’ve made the perfect moment Eddie's been looking for by just fucking picking it, already. Eddie could forget all about the other times he ought to have done this, about all the deadlines he’ll blow, and the hole in Richie’s chest. He could take this feeling that’s spreading through him and wrap them up safe in it for at least a few years.

Richie coughs a little when they break apart. “Sorry,” he tries to recover.

“Shut up,” Eddie shushes him, kissing Richie’s cheek. “Let me get you more water. And then you should rest. And you should let me take care of you,” he says, pressing even more kisses to Richie’s face, at odds with his declared mission.

Richie flusters under all this sudden affection, going pink and soft. He makes sure to angle himself into another one of Eddie’s kisses, opening his mouth and breathing into it, heavy. Eddie _knows_ he’s injured- _he knows_ \- but it sounds so desperate, as hungry for him as he’s been for Richie for so long now, it would be so easy to ignore- but he stops. It doesn’t mean he wants him any less, he just wants Richie to be safe, above all.

He brushes back Richie’s hair. “I want us to take care of each other and love each other from now on, I don’t wanna wait anymore- _I’m_ sorry.”

Richie hums to clear his throat. “Mmm. Weren’t we already doing that?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, straightening up. “But now it’s gonna be fucking romantic.”

“Romantic?!” Richie wheezes. “I took a bullet for you, isn’t that romantic enough?”

“If anything you took a bullet for my car.”

“You love that car.”

“I _did_ , but now it’s got Richie guts on it,” Eddie sighs.

One last kiss on the cheek goodbye. Eddie's going to have to go down the hall to get more water after all.

  
  


-Two Months Later-

Beverly calls him early in the morning before he has a chance to get some place quiet. There aren’t any doors to muffle sound between the den where Richie is sleeping and the kitchen. He needs his rest, but when he wakes up and sees the news, he’ll have his chance to go berserk, too.

“ _Did you see?!_ ” Beverly squeals.

Eddie pulls the phone away from his ear. “Yeah, yeah, it’s fantastic!” he hisses, grabbing his breakfast and scurrying back toward upstairs. “We got nominated!”

It’s not really about winning to Eddie- he has no delusions of being a high caliber filmmaker or anything, it’s just a medium that fits the message- but this’ll really get butts in seats! The bump they’ll get from nomination will get them more screens, and then if they _did_ win? Then it’ll really have legs. There could be as much as a fifty percent increase in viewership.

It had been tough, finding the balance of what he could let go, and what he had to hold on to, to get here. In his day to day right after Richie got shot, he was supposed to be getting the book finished. That had to go. He and Beverly invited Bill to fill in and it had been a life saver. With his background in criminology and security, Bill was well versed in a lot of the research, already. That weight off his shoulders meant Eddie could give Richie the full attention he needed when they were first able to get him back home. Then Mike came up with the idea of doing Q&As remotely by Skype, so Eddie could still do most of the screenings but cut out all the travel that would otherwise be tearing him away from Richie’s side. It felt a little impersonal at first, but once they had that format set up, they were able to get Stan to join in, too, which really got people excited. Former First Son Eddie Kaspbrak is old news- but the freshly minted first First Gentleman? What a draw!

“Have you given any thought to if you’ll go to the ceremony?” Beverly asks.

Eddie really wants to be able to take Richie, but that’s just not in the cards. He’s making strides and recovering flexibility with PT and all that, but his stamina is still pretty shot. No way he could make it through the whole thing without getting uncomfortable and crampy or straight up falling asleep on some mid-level celebrity’s shoulder. Then there’s the press gauntlet factor. When they do appear publicly, Eddie wants to be able to hold Richie’s hand. And once he comes out, there will be no putting that genie back in the bottle and there _will_ be questions. Richie will already be adjusting to not working the ropeline, so throwing all that at him while he’s still physically uncomfortable, too, is a non starter.

“Nah, we’re not gonna be ready,” he tells Beverly as he climbs the stairs that Richie struggles with. “I’m sorry.”

“More limelight for me, then,” Beverley hums. “-But yeah, I figured. The only handicap I’ve got going on right now is a hangnail, and I’m freaking out.”

“It's just a black tie.”

Beverly scoffs. “That’s easy for you to say, Mr. The Only Time I’ve Gone Out the Past Two Months Was To My Third Inauguration Ball.”

“You were there too!”

“Still, I can’t believe you’re bailing on me for Oscars night _again_.”

Eddie chuckles. “I really am the worst fucking friend.”

Beverly laughs, too- no hard feelings. Whatever she says, she isn’t really the sort to cling to his coattails, screaming internally. She’ll be fantastic.

“You know,” she says, thoughtfully. “If you’re not coming, I don't suppose I could take Ben? Give him your seat.”

“As long as you're not gonna hire him out from under me.”

Beverly smirks over the phone. “I thought Richie was _under_ you.”

“Well!” Eddie glances quick, back down the stairs. “He’s still healing, we haven’t been able to, _uh-_ I mean, yeah! If you like Ben just ask him out, don't... hire him. That’s-“ Eddie giggles nervously. “From experience, I’m telling you- that is _not_ an efficient way to get a boyfriend.”

  
  


-Another Month After That-

They’ve finally moved Richie back upstairs again, but it does wind him to go up and down everytime he wants to get changed, or use the master bath or take a nap. He’s doing well enough for short trips to the movies and the store, though, and he’s starting to drive again, with his tunes and his thumb drums, which Eddie had really missed. They made the right call, staying home for the Oscars, but that doesn’t mean it can’t still be a special night. Eddie gets some champagne and designer cupcakes, and Richie surprises him with his own special touch.

He comes down the stairs chuckling instead of groaning, so Eddie already knows something is afoot. He ducks out of the kitchen to take a look, and there Richie is, grinning ear to ear.

“A tux?” Eddie gives Richie an up and down. “The couch will feel so honored.”

Richie mimes a microphone, first at himself and then to Eddie. “And who are you wearing tonight, Mr. Kaspbrak?”

“...Hanes?” Eddie looks down at his plain tee and pajamas which probably came from Kohl’s six years ago. “It’s _vintage_ ,” he adds, and gives Richie’s lapel a tug to bring him close. He really does clean up nice. Sometimes Eddie thinks it's fortunate that Richie’s dress code had been so relaxed when they met, otherwise he might have been too distracted to earn his degree.

“Very sexy,” Richie admires, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s waist. “You’ll be setting some red carpet trends, for sure. Shame you didn’t accessorize with bunny slippers, though.”

Two can play at Fashion Police. Eddie pinches Richie’s bow-tie. “A clip on? What is this, a bar mitzvah? I’ve got a real one upstairs.”

“I wouldn’t know how to tie it.”

“I could’ve helped.”

“That would have ruined the surprise,” Richie points out. Then a devilish idea lights his eyes. “You could always tie me up with it later, though.”

Now, instead of quipping back something like _It’d make a better gag_ , Eddie can just kiss Richie when he says things like that, so he does. He leans up to Richie and plasters him with the sort of wet, open mouthed kiss that would set the real red carpet and also the family publicist’s hair on fire. _Mr. Kaspbrak, Mr. Kaspbrak, is this your partner? It was reported- It must have been difficult- Did your father’s presidency effect-_

He’s happy not to have to tune all of that noise out, really. The two of them here is celebration enough.

Eddie melts into their kiss, knees sagging before he catches himself. He shouldn’t put his weight on Richie, it’s too much. He’s wanted Richie for so long, but he doesn’t want to hurt him and cause any more setbacks. It took an entire week after Richie moved back upstairs for Eddie to relax enough to let him sleep in his bed. Before he pulls away, Eddie kisses him, light, like he kisses him goodnight. They’ll go further soon, hopefully _really soon_ , but they should at the very least watch the awards first.

Luckily, if your main focus is the relatively low hung star of documentary film, it’s an early night. They cuddle up on the couch and negotiate exactly how much champagne Richie is allowed (two glasses, with a full pint of water in between) and who is responsible for vacuuming red velvet crumbs out of the upholstery ( _I’m so weak, Spaghetti, so frail./ Too frail to stay up past nine, then./ I’m getting stronger every minute, check out the healing power of love, yo!_ ). As with most years, Richie’s got a prediction ballot that he immediately forgets to keep track of. His print out from _Vanity Fair_ is probably still magnetized to the fridge, with all the other contenders crossed out and a big heart drawn around _What You Don’t Know Can Kill You_.

Actor in a Supporting Role, Makeup and Hairstyling, and Costume Design all roll by while Eddie goes back and forth, talking himself in and out of the likelihood of their winning. Statistically, he knows that academy voters are likely not seeing every film and many just look at their ballots and go _That’s the gun law reform one, that’s not as depressing as this other one over here,_ and maybe their doc is heavy handed in its advocative tone, and while Kay is a great director, in his eyes, she’s also the _only_ director he’s worked with for something this length, so maybe he doesn’t know what it takes to put something worthy out there! Then clips play from the various nominations for Documentary Feature, including their own, and Richie turns to him and beams, and that’s all the benchmark for worthiness he needs.

“... _What You Don’t Know Can Kill You_ , McCall, Marsh, and Kaspbrak!”

“Oh my fucking god.”

The camera cuts to Beverly, kissing Ben as she and Kay leave their seats and make their way up to the stage. Then the feed cuts to another clip to give them travel time- Eddie interviewing a congresswoman. He knows Richie is just off screen to the left, there with him, but here with him too. _Thank god_. Richie's been with him every step and no one’s gonna take him away. He turns in his seat and grabs Richie’s face, dragging him into a kiss.

“So proud of you, Eddie,” Richie mutters into it. “Love you so _mmmm!_ ”

“Couldn’t do it without you,” Eddie mushes back. He thought he was going to pull away and raise another toast, but there’s still that bright, sour taste of Richie’s first drink on his tongue and Eddie’s _not_ on camera, and he has no speech to go give. He could just keep kissing Richie, thanking him, loving him. He could-

“...Wow, thank you, it really is an honor to be able to accept this, I’m sure you know how much a win means for a project like this, to help spread our message. I’ve got to thank my co-producer Eddie Kaspbrak, who championed _What You Don’t Know_ , despite so many challenges. Unfortunately, he can’t be with us tonight, but I think he’d want me to say, don’t take his absence as a sign that showing up isn’t important...”

Eddie’s knee hits the remote as he moves to straddle Richie’s lap, turning the TV off. Neither of them does anything to correct this.

“Am I squishing you?” he pants into Richie’s mouth. “I don’t wanna hurt you, I just want-”

“No, no, you’re good, you’re so good,” Richie says, hands skittering up and down Eddie’s back, cupping his ass then running atop his thighs, uncertain where to land. They’ve been able to behave themselves in bed because Eddie made _rules,_ but if the bed is the DMZ then the couch is the Thunderdome. _Two men enter, both men-_ "Come on," he breathes. "You do whatever you want, baby, I can take it."

Eddie grinds into him. "Let me just-”

“Oh, are we doing this, _right now?_ ” Richie bucks his hips off the couch cushion to try and help Eddie as he scrambles at his tux pants.

He growls in Richie’s ear. “You wanna fuck an Oscar winner, or not?”

“I dunno, is Meryl Streep offering?”

Eddie gives the performance of a lifetime, busting his way into Richie's shirt collar and teasing his bottom lip with his teeth. _Beat that, Meryl._ But he has to be sure. "You'll tell me? If you want me to stop?"  
  
Richie moans into his mouth. "I won't want you to stop."

"Promise."

Richie's frenzied hands go still for moment and he looks up at Eddie, full of promise. They have so much ahead of them. "I won't let either of us get hurt," Richie says.

"I know, I know, me too, _I love you_."

"I love you," Richie kisses him back. "Now get off me for a second so-"

"You can take off your pants, yeah-"

"-so I can clear off a place on the mantle," Richie grins. "Don't you want somewhere to put it?"

Eddie giggles as he scoots back off of Richie. “I’ll show you where to fucking put it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway, thanks for reading!!! Check out my tumblr and/or twitter for more art @stitchyarts!


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